


Memento Mori(arty)

by noahfronsenburg, patrexes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 'OP is a Necrophile' Finally Delivers On That Sweet Sweet Content, ...Worryingly So, Blood and Injury, Choking, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Enthusiastic Consent, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Face-Fucking, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Rough Sex, Skull Fucking, Snuff, Vitreous Jelly As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-08 18:23:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15935822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noahfronsenburg/pseuds/noahfronsenburg, https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: What it says on the tin.





	Memento Mori(arty)

**Author's Note:**

> We can't even claim a lack of adult supervision as to why this exists, because we were actively supervised by two different adults, both told us no, and we did it _anyway_. Therefore, the only other remaining excuse is spite, so we'll go with that.
> 
> Anyway, the weird "original era" AU episode was _really_ horny.

On a thin scrape of a ledge beside Grosser Reichenbachfall, with little context for how he had gotten there and no concern to spare for that lack, Sherlock Holmes cocked his brow, half a grin on his face. “You have a _magnificent_ brain, Moriarty,” and the man himself laughed, sketching a bow. “I admire it. I concede it may be even the equal of my own.”

If Holmes wore half a grin, Moriarty’s face was half of his own. “High praise, my dear Holmes!” he began, and the laugh buried in the words was the impetus necessary for Holmes to sidestep forward and grab him by the collar, shoving the man against the uneven wall of rock at his back so his head hit hard and Moriarty stumbled, shaking, reeling. “Oh,” he said, voice cracking, as Holmes pulled him back fully to his feet, and, with a sharp yank towards his own body at Moriarty’s right shoulder as he put as much of his weight as he could behind a punch to the man’s left, threw him down to the rocks which had come to a stop on their way down the Falls.

Moriarty, tripping with such a spin to his fall, came back up on one hand, pushing himself up to look at Holmes in shock, or, perhaps, amazement. There was blood trickling down his forehead, and Holmes watched it fork so that one stream ran into his eyebrow and the other down over the bridge of his nose. Holmes knew full well that when a man lashed out like this, it was in a fit of rage, and now, having exhausted both rage and adrenaline, that man would be drained, with heavy breath and guilt prickling in his belly like a sickness.

But then, it had been said of him before, Holmes knew, that he was not a man at all. It was true enough his breath was even and steady, and he felt no guilt—never had known the feeling—and that he had, in assaulting Moriarty, been overcome not by rage but by curiosity. This curiosity remained; an interest to see Moriarty fully _invested_ , for once. With the man crumpled at his feet, blood trailing down his face, joining the curiosity was an odd sense of fulfillment, calm but not, in fact, dispassionate.

It was a pleasant feeling, and to speak for guilt or conscience was only a thought that _Mycroft will not let me hear the end of this_ , and as for that, it was met with a tremor that knocked loose rocks no larger than gravel above their heads. A sense that _consequences_ were no concern of his, at present.

“What?” said Moriarty, as Holmes pressed him flat against the wet stone and rammed a knee under his ribcage. He gasped. “What are you doing?”

 _Oh, Jim,_ Holmes almost said, but that wasn’t right. “Professor,” he said instead, with measured condescension and no trace of a smile, “I _dearly_ hope you haven’t decided to take a pyrrhic victory and play the fool.” He undid his belt, and when Moriarty made to try and sit up on his elbows to look up at him, he struck the man across the face with it. Moriarty cried out, but it gave way to a giggle—no doubt due to the sound of Holmes unbuttoning his flies.

Holmes leaned over Moriarty’s upper body, belt in hand, and the press of Holmes’ knee into Moriarty’s ribs made the man wheeze, arching up his shoulders. Holmes threaded the belt around Moriarty’s neck and buckled it so that the buckle was at the base of the man’s neck. Holmes wrapped the tail of the belt around his hand so that he had a hold on it twice over, and then, when he was confident his grip was good, he removed the pressure of his knee from Moriarty’s abdomen, and made to straddle him.

He pulled on the belt, backwards and upwards, and with the belt tightening so too came Moriarty with an aborted noise in his throat, angling himself up on his elbows like he had just previously been punished for. “Open your mouth,” Holmes said.

“Why,” Moriarty said, “I didn’t think you had it in you,” with what this time was certainly amazement, but a sharp tug on the belt had him obediently—if one could ever deign to apply the word to him—open his mouth, tongue flat and jutting out only just past his lower lip, and he looked up at Holmes through his eyelashes.

Holmes freed himself from his open trousers with his free hand, and with the belt, pulled Moriarty up so as to make use of his mouth, bringing the man in so close his nose pressed hard into Holmes’ flesh.

It was no doubt difficult for Moriarty to find breath between his position and the belt pulled tight at his neck, but he kept his head and massaged Holmes’ own as best he could with suction and the press of the back of his tongue. It was neither pleasant nor unpleasant; impressive, in a way, that Moriarty pressed past his gag reflex, but that was nothing Holmes hadn’t learned to do himself, and he rarely found himself admiring anything he, too, was capable of. He wound his fingers rough in Moriarty’s short hair and used the man to bring himself to hardness.

With an unforgiving pace and his other hand still holding the belt taut, Moriarty had little chance to breathe unimpeded, but when Holmes let him fall away he coughed, expelling air when all he clearly wished to do was inhale until he had his breath back.

“How impolite you are,” Moriarty finally managed, his voice a bare and reedy whisper in the back of his constricted throat. “Your mother would be horrified.” Holmes studiously ignored this blatant attempt to bait him, and instead looked down thoughtfully upon the man beneath him. He was in a state perhaps nearing shock, but still had most his wits about him, and was not yet in true danger of being strangled.

His mouth, however, was losing its appeal. Moriarty so rarely used it to its full potential; that had been a particularly uninspiring attempt at banter. No, whatever the effort he could attempt now to prove through the affections contrived by his tongue and lips and throat, his mouth had proven… insufficient. But there remained still other potential objects of interest about him, aside from the lockbox of his skull, hiding the true calculations of his precious grey matter.

It was in this matter of course that Holmes leaned forward, pressing his weight further onto his knees where they were atop Moriarty’s upper arms. With such a difference in height upon the other man, Holmes had some significant weight on him as well, for Moriarty was not a man given to physical exertions to further train his body when his mind had previously always sufficed, so it was a matter of ease indeed to increase the pressure until Holmes brought his weight down in full and felt the grinding _pop_ below him of Moriarty’s shoulders wrenching from their sockets.

The noise he made, which Holmes recognized with a burst of heat in the pit of his stomach to be more pleasure than pain, was almost surprised.

“I grow tired of your chatter,” he sighed, holding Moriarty’s head upright once more by the belt ‘round his throat. “You really _do_ need to think of insults worth my time.” Taking his free hand, Holmes reached forward to hold the Professor’s left eye open as wide as he could, the gossamer silk of his eyelids fluttering and jerking beneath his fingers. “Otherwise, it’s just embarrassing.”

Holmes went, purposefully, very still. He stopped where he was, his hips poised just before Moriarty’s face, stroking the base of his cockstand, watching the other man’s expression. Holmes had praised his mind for a reason, and he proved it now, his eyes glancing rapidly over the head of Holmes’ erection as he glanced back and forth.

Moriarty did not have to do anything beyond tilt his jaw up to better align his eye with Holmes’ cockhead for Holmes to take it as the request that it was, and he shifted the thumb atop Moriarty’s eyelid down just enough that he placed the print squarely atop his eyeball, the rough edge of his nail scraping the slick surface of his cornea. For a moment, he simply left his thumb there, dragging it back and forth over Moriarty’s eye to see how he would react, to trace the resistance of the ball of his eye against the pressure, as his eyelids flickered, trying to dispel the too-large intrusion against that sensitive fruit they were meant to guard from such an invasion.

Holmes considered dragging the experience out, and then threw it away as an idea. There was no purpose to it when the end result was the same, and he had little interest in torturing Moriarty, especially when he was so… willing.

Instead, he simply grit his teeth and pressed down. Hard.

Sherlock Holmes had plenty of previous experience with the consistency of a human eyeball. Had not every new medical student found the desire to crush one between their fingers and see what would happen? The human mind had what many considered a horrifying curiosity to the macabre, and Holmes had not been one to resist. But he had never done this in the skull of a living man, so it was in that way an experience to be savored and relived later.

The ball of Moriarty’s eye caved quick enough, Holmes’ thumbnail puncturing through his cornea with ease and then grinding deeper into the vitreous humors below. His retina, so slick and tremulous beneath the pad of Holmes’ thumb, went too.

Moriarty whined, low and broken. It was a sound Holmes had never had the pleasure of hearing before; many people enjoyed pain, but few, in his experience, enjoyed being maimed. Moriarty—ever the exception—arched his hips up, seeking contact, and his eyelids fluttered. Vitreous humor caught on his eyelashes and began making its way down his cheek, slow and viscous, in a single body, thin strings of blood suspended in the clear fluid.

Holmes sat back on his shins for a moment, enough that Moriarty could rub himself against him, though that was not his intent. He caressed Moriarty’s cheek with the pad of his thumb, sweeping the vitreous humor up as he went, and curled his back over Moriarty’s form, taking grasp of the man’s hair with his other hand to angle his head back so no more of the fluid would escape the eye socket.

“Despite what seems to me to be your every effort to reduce my appreciation for your criminal acumen, I truly do admire your brain,” Holmes said. Moriarty was still attempting frottage in jagged movements of his hips against the fabric of Holmes’ trousers, which Holmes found a particularly, oddly _compelling_ sort of pathetic. “I should think to make use of it the best way I can think of. The only way I might ever find it fully palatable.”

Moriarty’s breath was as jagged as his thrusting when he giggled. “Quite! Oh, I’d _wished_ you might do something like this, but I never thought you really _would_.”

Holmes ignored him, these last, _banal_ words, and shifted the hand in his hair down somewhat so that he could cup Moriarty’s head in his hand, and went back up on his knees—Moriarty moaning at the loss of contact—and slid his hand over his erection a few times to bring himself back to full hardness before pressing in.

The vitreous fluid and blood were slippery and warm on the head of his cock, and the feel of the lens of Moriarty’s eye catching under his foreskin was altogether disconcerting. The man himself was still as Holmes slowly pressed farther in. With every push Holmes made deeper he could feel Moriarty stilling against him, his breath first gusting free of his lungs; then his hips flattening to the ground below; then his torso slumping with muscle weakness as his spirit began to give up its remaining ties to its vessel.

Truly, it was in every way unremarkable. The insides of Moriarty’s skull, his grey matter, was gritty, unpalatable, soft and rather like yoghurt, once Holmes began thrusting. It was, in fact, the same as every other brain, human or animal, he had handled in his years of study—fragile and flawed and hardly as tenacious in death as it was in life. It stuck to the shaft of his cock, slid into his slit, caught in his foreskin. But he kept doing it, crouched over Moriarty’s body as it spasmed in its final throes, fucking him like he would anyone else, thrusting into the orbital socket, his scrotum slapping loudly against Moriarty’s cheek and finally still lips.

It was that which ruined the experience, in troth. All the scintillation that Holmes had received from his encounters with the Professor—his verbose spars, his cruel intonations, his masterful construction of language that had rendered itself so wholly to his villainous will—they no longer could assist in feeding his desire. In this final plunder of everything James Moriarty had offered unto him, Holmes had traded the temporary satisfaction of his carnal desires for the greater satiation he had begun to crave from Moriarty in his animation.

The contest done, the victor decided, Sherlock Holmes found that the spoils of war were far less distracting than the battle itself had been.

He turned his thoughts instead to other, more pleasant images; like most sex Holmes had had, this experience was a disappointment when held up to its fantasized version. He thought instead of using a scalpel, cutting the man open and taking heavy shears to his ribcage. Slicing open his organs and getting as deeply, irreparably inside Moriarty as Moriarty had gotten inside of him. In this fantasy, as could never be in reality, Moriarty was living still, as he was cut into, even as Holmes held his heart in his bare and ungloved hands. Delivering clever repartee as Holmes defiled his corporeal form, as they were both, truthfully, beings of thought rather than of blood and flesh.

He came, but it was utterly uninspired and merely a rote act, and pulled out. His dick was coated in the remains of what had once been the brain of James Moriarty. Holmes sneered and wiped himself off with his handkerchief.

There would be a hole the shape of Holmes’ erection through the inside of Moriarty’s skull forever, marking the inside of his brain, the fine nerve structures and blood vessels and the gelatin construction of the actual brain pulverized by Holmes’ rapid thrusting. Like a brand, but so much more poetic; a fitting end to a man who had attempted the same in reverse—even if his intentions had been towards the metaphorical.

It was not so remarkable of a brain after all, then.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us both at the same URLs on tumblr if you want to complain about reading this. We understand.
> 
> The title is from @lollians, though, so that one isn't on us.


End file.
